


Refuge

by motorcyclefl1p



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Mildly Dubious Consent, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-07 21:41:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18881800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motorcyclefl1p/pseuds/motorcyclefl1p
Summary: Black Widow joins the men formerly known as Captain America and the Winter Soldier in hiding after the events of "Civil War".





	1. Chapter 1

A little salt, a lot of pepper. After another look at her notes, Natasha slid a minced onion into the bowl and cracked in an egg, followed by a sprinkle of flour.

_“The best way to do it is really to use your hands.” His near-whisper teased the fine hairs at her neck. Natasha instinctively tensed as his arm encircled her, but he merely guided her hands with his directly onto the meat mixture. Calloused fingers entwined sensually through hers as she began to knead the ingredients together, hesitant in her inexperience._

_“Now you don’t wanna overwork it,” purred Bucky in her ear. Natasha felt the heat radiating from his body as he stood directly behind her, all implacable, immovable muscle. “You don’t want the meat to get tough.”_

Natasha smiled at the memory as she shaped the meat mixture between her hands. The Winter Soldier, smelling of garlic and parsley, passing on to her his grandmother’s recipe. Formerly shooting her through the kidney just to murder the asset under her watch. How times changed. Glancing at the clock, she set out a pan. 

_“The carrots were my_ nonna _’s secret, so you have to swear never to tell anybody else.” His face was dangerously close to hers, his smile sly and his blue eyes mock-serious._

_“How in the world does James Buchanan Barnes have a _nonna?"_ teased Natasha, acutely conscious of the scant inch of heated space between them as she stirred the sauce. “And I still don’t see why I can’t just buy some at the supermarket.”_

_“You’re killin’ me.” His hand closed over hers, over the wooden spoon. Natasha smothered a laugh as they began to stir together. “Here I am entrusting to you the deepest, darkest secrets my grandma took with her to her very_ grave _—she was my grandpa's second wife, I'll have you know, it was quite the scandal at the time—and now you’re saying you’d rather get_ store _bought—”_

_“Buck.” Natasha hid a grin as they both looked toward the figure suddenly looming in the doorway. Steve pretended to lounge, but she easily read the taut lines along his jaw, down his neck, across his shoulders. “Everything’s set up. We fly out day after tomorrow.”_

_Bucky’s smile was strained. “Right. Got it.”_

_Smirking, Steve cocked an eyebrow at Nat. “This guy bothering you?”_

_“Not at all, soldier.” And Bucky’s answering chuckle raised goosebumps along her shoulder._

They’d been like children, she mused, the two of them constantly joking and bickering so that she had to pointedly ignore them to get anything done. Things hadn’t been quite so relaxed when she’d suddenly shown up on their doorstep that rainy night: Bucky had been wary and Steve had just smiled, utterly unsurprised. She hadn’t been sure how to act or what to expect. But Steve had invited her in, told her to make herself at home. And despite herself, she had stayed.

She hummed a little as she lifted the lid over the pot, let steam billow past. The noodles she spun into the bubbling water, just as Bucky had taught her.

She had simply watched that first evening when he wordlessly set about preparing dinner in the kitchen. More curious than anything else, she had sat down at the table while he laid out some things he’d bought at the market earlier that day: sausages, vegetables, a dozen plums. The man liked himself some plums. Munching on a peanut butter sandwich, Nat had looked on as he picked out some more produce and found in a drawer the lone kitchen knife available in the sparsely furnished rental. He’d begun to hone the kitchen knife, running it in slow, measured strokes across the bottom rim of a coffee mug, when he stopped and glanced up at her through long, inky lashes. The blade glinted in his hand.

“I’m not makin’ you nervous, am I?”

After a moment, she’d met his smile with one of hers. “Not at all.”

If Steve trusted him, she would.

He still spoke with a Brooklyn drawl, she’d decided later that night, as Bucky’s spontaneous cooking demonstration led to conversation over glasses of cheap supermarket wine. After Steve rejoined them from a meeting he’d had in the city, he and Bucky had competed to embarrass each other with increasingly lurid stories from their childhood and Natasha had laughed until she cried. When Steve relaxed enough to drop his perfect diction, she remembered, he lapsed into that Brooklyn drawl too.

She found herself smiling again from the memory even as she glanced again at the clock. Tucking a stray strand of newly blond hair out of the way, she hefted the pot over the sink to drain the pasta.

She hadn’t had to come here. She could have gone somewhere else. She probably would have been better off somewhere else, too, on her own where she knew the terrain better, could access more resources to lie low. She was, after all, now one of the world’s most wanted, just like them. She hadn’t had to end up in this life, piecing together meals from printed-out recipes and Youtube tutorials, the reluctant picture of domesticity for lack of much else to do. Yet here she was, frying up meatballs when she would have been perfectly content with another scrounged-up sandwich.

The truth was, that night when she’d left the Avengers compound, she’d known exactly where she wanted to go.

It wasn’t lust, she told herself. And Steve would blush all over and jump out of a plane parachuteless before he seduced anyone. Nat knew plenty of handsome men, as well as charming ones, sweet ones, dull ones, and smart ones like Tony Stark; men who knew their way around women and men who fell at her feet helpless. By and large they were a blur to her, tried to use her, tried to keep her. Even in the freedom she had gained when she defected, even when she could have opted for a new and normal life, she had found little in them to interest her. They were all much the same, even Tony who was just a little smarter, worked just a little harder to stay on the side of the angels, for which reason she still more or less respected him. Even though, like so many others, he still hadn’t been able to let go of his ego in the end.

No, it wasn’t lust, even though she with her assassin’s eye could always appreciate the steel of a finely tuned muscle, the sleek lines of a well-developed body.

But how else could she explain how she gravitated toward him? The wordless, thoughtless, almost instinctual urge to be at his side, support him, protect him at all costs—she had given up trying to resist it, simply gave in to it, and the seamless rhythm of their combined fighting styles thrilled her every time. But why she was here, now, toiling at a stove in the middle of nondescript suburbia and watching the clock like a... like a wife waiting for her husband to come home?

He was, for that matter, increasingly late. Natasha resisted the impulse to Google flight arrival times and instead began to fill the dishwasher. She was just pouring herself a self-congratulatory glass of wine—she had only _almost_ burned the garlic, after all—when she heard the telltale step outside on the pavement four floors down and pretended to ignore the sudden heat in her chest. She was already pouring another glass of wine when the door swung open.

“About damn time,” she called out as he shut and locked the door behind him. “I hope you’re hungry.”

“I probably am.” He slumped into the couch and groaned, leaning his head back, stretching out his legs on top of the battered coffee table. “Economy was terrible.”

“Told you to try to borrow the jet.” She slapped at his knees, one by one, and he obediently lowered his feet back to the floor. She turned on some music. “How was Wakanda?” She placed a bowl of spaghetti in front of him.

“It was good. Beautiful country. You should meet Shuri sometime.” He paused, closing his eyes with a sigh. “They put Bucky back under.”

She longed to touch him. Instead she sat back, curled her fingers around her wineglass. She wondered when she would get to hear Bucky’s drawl again. “I’m sorry about that.” Her voice caught and she cleared her throat, then pushed his wineglass toward him in silent suggestion.

“Well, I’m sure they’ll get him better soon.” His tone was wistful, his expression clouded as he absent-mindedly took his first bite. Halfway through chewing, he stopped and chuckled. “I’m glad he got around to teaching you his grandma’s spaghetti first, though.”

Natasha allowed herself a smile. “He told me you used to love it, every time you came around.” 

“Yeah.” Steve stared stoically down at nothing for a moment, and Nat knew he was battling tears. “Yeah, I did.”

He was too pure for her, she concluded, as Banner hadn’t been. Banner, she’d wanted. Somebody who felt damaged as she did, somebody who knew what it was like to fear and distrust and regret oneself, all at the same time. In her loneliness she had been drawn to him, the man who was also unhappily the Hulk, a seeming kindred spirit amidst her isolation; she’d craved what Banner had promised of understanding, of sympathy, of sameness.

Banner she’d wanted. But Rogers, she knew, she needed. He was crystal clarity, certain and absolute. He was, as he said, always honest. More than that, he was unambivalent, unequivocal, uncompromising. In this, as recent events had proved, he was even lonelier than her. And although he had cut out the bright white star from the center of his uniform, uncomfortable about what it represented, for Natasha who had long since outgrown the need to believe in anything it had already taken on a different meaning. 

_Her pole star. Her true north._

Banner had signified comfort, but Steve gave her a direction, a purpose. Even if, for now, it was only to make his favorite dinner on the night he came back alone, having left behind his best friend in all the world in a country twenty hours away by plane with not nearly enough legroom.

He looked up as she refilled his glass without asking and left the bottle on the table. Natasha smiled into shadowed blue eyes. “I’ll clean up.”

He protested less than usual. Nat put away the food and dishes and came back to find his feet on the coffee table again and his head flopped backward in sleep. The bottle on the table was empty.

She brought him a blanket, not that he needed it. She refused to admit that she had missed him. She told herself he probably hadn’t missed her. She tucked the blanket around him carefully, opting this time to leave his feet propped up on the table in peace.

She glanced up to find him watching her, eyes dark, hair askew.

She kissed him tentatively, telling herself it was the wine, knowing she wasn’t drunk, knowing he couldn’t be. Even as she tasted the softness of his lips she cursed herself for what she’d dared to do, felt his hand on her wrist and braced herself—

—but then he leaned up into her, his arm tightening around her waist and his mouth meeting hers with an urgency that flamed low in her belly. He was tired, she reminded herself, tired and sad and so very alone, and she understood. She had done more for far lesser men. He kissed her so hard they both gasped for breath and then she laughed shakily, catching hold of his arm when he started to pull away.

“Nat—” Already he was apologetic.

“You said once,” she interrupted, “you wanted me to be a friend.” She resisted the longing to kiss him again just yet. She would not seduce him. “Will you let me? Be a friend?”

He exhaled. His fingers splayed up her back, dug into her skin. He could break her in a single movement. “Nat...”

She kissed him again. She didn’t need to hear that he was sorry. In the morning she could tell him she was, too.

 

_to be continued?_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Black Widow joins the man formerly known as Captain America on his next mission after the events of "Civil War".

Blond hair suited her, he decided. Checking on his equipment, he watched her out the corner of his eye as she languorously cleaned her guns, picking up each part from its place in the lineup in front of her and carefully brushing it out or wiping it down. They had made good time from the drop-off point and the setting sun was just now slanting in through the windows of the small hunting lodge, last rays gleaming in Natasha’s pale curls.

He’d had a few mornings now to admire the glow of sunlight in her hair, but he didn’t expect to tire of it anytime soon.

“Spit it out or zip it, Cap,” she drawled, not even looking up from the barrel she was oiling. “We’re a little early, but even I don’t have enough time to squeeze it out of you.”

He nearly choked at the vivid mental image her words immediately called up, intentionally or otherwise. His photographic memory was a curse sometimes. She gave him her usual sly grin, not even looking at her gun as she reassembled it with precise, efficient movements. 

“That’s a little below the belt, don’t you think?” he muttered, stepping into his drysuit and trying not to look too pleased with himself when she laughed out loud.

“No, Cap, _that’s_ below the belt. For you, anyway.” She holstered the gun and sauntered over, eyes sparkling. “Need any help with that?”

Any response he might possibly have made was strangled in his throat as she grasped the zipper tab on his drysuit and slowly, slowly pulled it up his body, slender fingers skating knowingly across the thin material underneath, the sun glinting gold in eyes never leaving his. His senses sang with the rising whir of the zip and he quickly stilled her hand with his, but not before she felt the shudder that coursed through him.

“Nat,” he began.

“Steve,” she breathed, watching him, waiting.

He kissed her. He could do this all day, he mused, before reluctantly pulling back from her soft lips. He cradled her face in his hand, marveled at the smoothness of her skin and the delicate jut of her cheek against his palm.

“I’m sorry,” he managed after a moment.

She chuckled, lowered her eyes. “Congratulations, you lasted longer than I thought you would.”

She might as well have slapped him. “I’m sorry. I mean…” For all he was supposedly pretty good at impromptu speeches, he felt like a tongue-tied twenty-year-old again all of a sudden. He sighed and closed his eyes to steady himself, tried not to think about the warm, lithe body so close to his. How familiar that body had become, how recently. “This isn’t how I would’ve wanted this to happen. I don’t want to… just use you.” Gathering her close, he allowed himself a kiss on the top of her head. “You’re so much more than that.” _To me._

He felt her smile against his chest. “Don’t feel too bad about it, Rogers.” She shrugged. “Everybody needs a little skin-to-skin once in a while.”

Her tone wasn’t nearly as breezy as she might have intended, but it still stung. “So is that all this is to you? Body warmth?” His own tone came out rougher than he’d wanted it to, as raw as he felt. “Tell me, Natasha, who else have you made fall for you just because you gave them ‘a little skin-to-skin’?”

He regretted the words as soon as he said them. He would have let her slap him, would have let her knock him down and beat him to kingdom come if she wanted. Instead he looked into her eyes, huge with surprise, luminous with hurt, and he would have vastly preferred the beating.

“I’m sorry, Nat, that came out all wrong—”

She said nothing, merely stepped around him and stalked out of the lodge. As the door shut behind her he stood for a moment, irresolute. Then he sighed, shaking his head at himself, and followed outside.

The lodge huddled in a copse at the top of a thickly wooded slope, a little-used shelter for when some wealthy associate or other of Natasha’s went hunting once in a while. Nat had used her network, called in a favor or two; she’d taken days when he’d expected to have to wait weeks. It took him a minute now to find her slim figure hidden among the ancient trees, mere steps from where the land dropped steeply and invisibly away to the rocky coastline hundreds of feet below. 

He moved to stand beside her as she stared out at the gray horizon, where fast-roiling clouds met the glassy sea.

He steeled himself to try again. 

“You know, you can still go back, turn yourself in. Make a deal. They’ll do that for you.” He hoped she’d accept the unspoken apology in his voice. “This isn’t fair to you. The others will understand. I’ve already asked too much of you.” _And taken even more,_ he thought with a pang.

“Wanna get rid of me that bad, huh Rogers?”

She arched an eyebrow at him, flashed a gamine smile, and he found himself at a loss. For several nights now he had slept holding her close, his face in her hair, her scent and her warmth enfolding him, and now he hesitated even to stand too close, or something he couldn’t quite name would shatter between them beyond repair. 

The wind eddied past them, heavy with the sea.

“Some years ago I was on assignment in Sevastopol.” He almost didn’t hear her, her voice was so soft and far away and drifted in the damp air. “There’s a beautiful place near there, a lot like this one. Cliffs, and the sky, and the sea. Just a couple of steps and it was straight on down to the rocks in the water. There was no way they could’ve stopped me. And I was pretty sure the mission was worth failing.”

He found he was holding his breath, just staring at her and her hollow half smile. Even the ache in his chest came second to hearing her every word, the sadness in her voice. 

“Not long after that Clint came to me in Moldova and the rest, as they say, is history.” She raised limpid eyes to him, green as the waves in the distance. “You think I don’t know a hard life, Steve? A life on the run? I don’t need Tony’s money or SHIELD’s gadgets or even some fancy secret base. I’ve thrown away plenty more than that in my time.” A bitter smile curved her mouth. He realized belatedly that he had taken her hand in his. She didn’t pull away. “What I need…” She caught herself, looked away.

“What?” he prompted when she kept silent. He had stepped closer to her before he knew it, savored a kiss, two kisses, across her knuckles, pressed the back of her small and slender hand to his face. “Tell me what you need.” _And I’ll move heaven and earth for you to get it._ “Please.”

She’d turned to watch him, stricken. As the seconds ticked by he felt apprehension, regret, begin to coil inside him despite himself.

“Just—” She looked away again, but not before he saw her eyes start to brim. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what it cost her to be so honest with him. Seemingly bracing herself, she looked back up at him at last, her gaze no less intense for the tear creeping down her cheek. “Just don’t let me down.”

He couldn’t help smiling, the weight in his chest dissolving. _The way you don’t let anybody down._ To anyone else it might have seemed such a small thing to ask, might even have seemed laughable, but he wouldn’t underestimate what it took for her even just to say it out loud. _The way you give everything of yourself without a second thought._ “I’ll do my best.” _It’s the least I can do._ He kissed her open palm.

She smiled back, eyes still shining as he cradled her hand against his cheek. Her button nose was starting to turn red. He might never let on, but he found it adorable. “You damn well better, soldier.”

He held her then, a distant part of him fascinated by how he seemed to close over her, her slender body so full of power, so taut with strength, but letting him surround her anyway. Her words echoed in his thoughts, reminded him of something else someone had told him once. 

_“I’m with you to the end of the line, pal.”_

“’Cause even _you’re_ going to need help storming that castle,” she added in his ear.

He laughed, and so did she. She met his kiss passionately. He very nearly lost track of the evening deepening around them.

“It’s time,” she whispered, too soon. 

He broke the kiss with a sigh, settled for the sweet, silent press of his forehead to hers. She squeezed his hand wordlessly.

As they turned and headed back to the lodge, she leaned almost imperceptibly into the hand he placed low on her back. He relished what would be his last memory of her warmth for a while.

For now, it was time to suit up.

 

_to be continued??_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed this one! Sorry it took a while. These two are intoxicating.
> 
> Also I did realize that, in the movie, the Raft prison break is shown _before_ Bucky goes under in Wakanda. But by then I'd already published Part One... oops...

**Author's Note:**

> (Revised from a piece previously posted on FFnet; also posted on Tumblr. Anyway Endgame doesn't happen tralalaaa~)


End file.
